No Traveller Returns
by ShakespeareFreak
Summary: Velma Dinkley's life revolves around facts and logic. Every ghost, ghoul, or goblin she faces is merely a greedy criminal in a rubber mask. But when a real dead man shows up on her doorstep one rainy night, Velma is forced to face the idea that some questions may not have logical answers. Contains Spoilers for Scooby-Doo! and the Witch's Ghost.
1. Prologue: Broken

**DISCLAIMER: **_Scooby-Doo_ and all related characters, settings, and events belong to Hanna-Barbera Cartoons and Warner Bros. Animation. This is a not-for-profit work. I am not making any money, nor am I attempting to negatively affect the market for any of the materials shown, or take proceeds from their creators, but rather to expand the fanbase and keep the pre-existing fanbase strong.

Some quotes from the film _Scooby-Doo! and the Witch's Ghost _are used.

**RATING: **T (for character death, some violence, some dark themes, minor coarse language, some suggestive adult themes, and possible ideologically sensitive material)

**SHIPS: **Ben Ravencroft x Velma Dinkley, Fred Jones x Daphne Blake

**CHARACTERS FEATURED: **Ben Ravencroft, Velma Dinkley, Daphne Blake, Fred Jones, Shaggy Rogers, Scooby-Doo, Thorn, Dusk, Luna, Sarah Ravencroft, various OCs

**SPOILER WARNING: **Contains Spoilers for _Scooby-Doo! and the Witch's Ghost_.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **This story is somewhat AU. In this first segment, I relate the events of the final scenes of _Scooby-Doo! and the Witch's Ghost_, with one small addition, which will affect some of the action in later chapters.

In addition, this story assumes that _Witch's Ghost_ is a separate canon from other "the-monster-is-real" films like _Zombie Island_, and therefore Sarah Ravencroft was the only true supernatural entity Mystery Inc. encountered.

I also changed a line of the Hex Girls' closing song, because it's always bugged me that they apparently don't know "wind" and "air" are the same element.

In my defense, _Scooby-Doo_ never had one solid canon to begin with.

The title is a quote from William Shakespeare's _Hamlet. _Hamlet's grim words about death as "the undiscover'd country, from whose bourn / No traveller returns" may seem pretty straightforward, but some Shakespeare aficionados have noticed irony in their placement in the play: when Hamlet speaks these lines, he has already seen his father's ghost, a "traveller" who did, in fact, return to the land of the living. The irony of these words, and the ensuing debate over the cause of this seeming discontinuity, fits neatly with the themes presented in this story of the finality of death, the possibility of resurrection, and the idea that sometimes there are more questions than there are answers.

* * *

**Prologue: Broken**

**_October 23rd, 1999_**

_"Earth, Water, Fire, and Air!_  
_We may look bad, _  
_But we don't care!_  
_We ride the wind, _  
_We feel the fire!_  
_To love the earth is our one desire._  
_To love the earth... IS OUR ONE DESIRE!"_

The cheers of the crowd filled the autumn night. Thorn called out, "Thank you Oakhaven! We love you all!" The cheering intensified. She yelled over the roar, "And a very special thanks to Mystery Inc.! Without them, none of this would have been possible! Let's give them a rockin' Oakhaven THANK YOUUU!"

Fred grinned and waved, his arm around Daphne. Daphne looked at him with the small, secret smile she reserved especially for him—the one that Velma knew meant _You don't know it yet, but someday we're going to be married—_before turning back out to flash a brilliant smile into the stage lights. Shaggy and Scooby mugged and blew kisses at the crowd, basking in the attention. Velma waved cheerfully, a wide grin plastered on her face.

As they walked offstage, Velma heard Thorn behind her. "And remember, we're releasing our first album this November, so be sure to pick up…" But she couldn't hear any more; Thorn's voice and the noise of the crowd faded into the loud, painful sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. The instant she was out of sight of the audience, the fake smile fell from her face. She felt like she was going to be sick. She ducked away from her friends, who were still busy congratulating each other, and ran into the deep shadows behind the stage, gasping in deep breaths of the crisp night air.

Her hands clenched into fists, the fingernails digging into her palms hard enough to hurt. Her vision blurred as hot tears welled in her eyes; saltwater splashed onto her glasses.

_Ben…_

It had all happened so fast. Thorn had read the spell, and the book's power began to drag Sarah Ravencroft, screaming, into it. Ben was yelling something indistinct as the globe of energy imprisoning him began to dissipate. But no one paid any attention; they were too busy watching in speechless awe as Sarah vanished into the book.

There was a loud popping noise above Velma's head, like logs in a fire. She looked up just in time to see a massive branch break off the burning tree she was standing under and fall directly towards her. She stood frozen as it fell. Time seemed to slow. She stared in wide-eyed horror, rooted to the spot—

_"VELMA!"_ Someone knocked her out of the way. They landed, painfully, in a jumble of arms and legs. An instant later, the flaming branch crashed to the ground in the very spot she'd been standing, showering the dirt with an explosion of red-hot sparks. _If that thing had hit me…_ She didn't want to think about it.

Her head spinning, she half sat up, looking around blearily to see which of her friends had saved her. _Fred, Shaggy, Daphne, Scooby…_ They were all just staring at her speechlessly. _Thorn?_ But Thorn was standing a few feet away, face pale and shocked. _Then who…?_

She looked down. Ben Ravencroft was lying on the ground beside her. The back of his jacket was flecked with tiny black burns—he'd thrown his arms protectively around her, shielding her from the embers. The knees of his pants were dirty, and his palms were scratched… she realized that when they'd hit the ground, he'd put his hands out to cushion the impact on her. He smiled at her, relief shining in his dark eyes.

And then relief had turned to terror as Sarah's bony fingers wrapped around his ankle. _"I won't go back alone!" _she screeched. Ben scrabbled helplessly at the ground for a moment as she dragged him into the book with her, but to no avail… he was sucked up into the book, and it slammed shut with a deafening _bang._

No one had time to react. The whole thing—the falling branch, Ben's rescue, and his imprisonment in the book—had encompassed only a few seconds. Velma blinked, one hand still outstretched towards the book. She hadn't even realized she'd reached for Ben's hand as he was being pulled in.

There was a moment of shocked silence. Then another fiery branch fell onto the book. They all jumped, and Velma covered her face instinctively from the spray of embers. The hungry flames licked at the ancient, yellowed paper for a moment; then the whole thing caught ablaze.

The pages curled, turned from faded yellow to red-hot to ash, the spidery black words of unknown spells appearing for an instant, then gone again as the fire consumed them. Within minutes, the book was nothing but a pile of ash, dotted here and there with the glow of dying embers. The smoke curled lazily up into the dark sky…

_Ben…_

He'd saved her life. _Why? _Afterward, as she sat still and silent, she'd heard the others offering theories, surmising this or that. She hadn't really been listening. In her mind, fragmented scenes played and replayed… the small scratches on Ben's palms. The look of relief on his face. The malicious red-orange glow of the flames. Someone—Daphne—had helped her up, walked her to their room at the hotel, gently wiped the soot off her face with a warm wet washcloth. Velma submitted to all this with the blank stare of a lobotomized patient. Daphne had put her to bed like a child, and Velma instantly fell into the deep blackness of a dreamless sleep.

The following morning, she'd greeted them all with a bright, cheerful smile. Everyone had seemed worried, but she waved away their questions, feigning excitement for the concert that night. She couldn't deal with the pity she saw in their eyes. The grief she felt was personal, and she wanted to deal with it alone.

"Velma?"

Daphne's voice jerked her back to the present. Velma turned, quickly wiping the tears from her face. Her glasses were still spotted with the evidence, and she hastily took them off and rubbed the lenses clean on her turtleneck.

Daphne stood looking at her, head tilted slightly, worry in her blue eyes. "Velma? You okay?"

Velma sniffled and forced the fake smile back onto her face. "Yeah." Aware of her red, puffy eyes, she lied, "Allergies. The flash powder. I just needed some fresh air."

It was a bad lie; anyone could see through it. Daphne's face softened with sympathy. Velma winced at what would come next: the questions, the forced hugs, the assurances that things do get better, that hearts heal, that not all men are pigs. Being told that Ben was a bad guy, that one good action didn't change that. The pity that she'd already come to despise.

Daphne surprised her by breaking into a bright grin. "Okay!" She winked. "Just come back when you're feeling better. We're all waiting for you!"

Velma stared at her in blank shock. Daphne knew she was lying; that smile was as false as her own. She was giving Velma what she wanted: space to work through her pain alone.

After a moment, Velma recovered. "Thanks, Daphne." She gave a small smile… a real one this time.

Daphne returned it with a real smile of her own. She said softly, "Anytime, Velms." Daphne hardly ever used her pet name; it felt warm, like a cup of hot tea on a rainy afternoon. Without another word, Daphne disappeared back into the bright lights on the other side of the stage.

Velma glanced at her hand, and saw that her fingernails, short and well-trimmed, had still managed to leave deep marks in the flesh of her palms, tiny half-moons. Her legs gave way and she crumpled ungracefully to her knees. _Why? Why did he save me?_

She could never ask him. He was gone.

She knew he'd tricked her and betrayed her. She knew that everything he'd ever told her, every moment of warmth she'd thought they'd shared, was a lie. She_ wanted_ to be glad to be rid of him.

She kept going back to those tiny scratches on his palms, where the dirt and rocks had scraped the skin. To the burn marks on his jacket. To the evidence that he'd put her first—and he'd died because of it.

_WHY?_

Slow, steady tears started coursing warm tracks down her cheeks again. She choked back a sob, then another.

_Broken, _she thought. _I'm broken._

Unable to fight the tears any longer, she took off her glasses, laid them carefully on the dead October grass, and sobbed, the noise of the concert in her ears. The bright lights, the music, the happy cheers of the crowd; it was just on the other side of the stage, but it might as well have been a world away.

_Broken… _the word echoed through her brain, like a dismal chant to some forbidden ritual, or the solemn drumbeat of a funeral march. _Broken broken broken…_

_Broken._


	2. A Dead Man on the Doorstep

**A Dead Man on the Doorstep**

_**April 2****nd****, 2002**_

It was, appropriately, a dark and stormy night. A cold, bitter early-spring rain drenched the landscape and lashed at Velma Dinkley's windows.

On the fateful night when Mystery, Inc. had collided with Ben Ravencroft at the natural history museum, Velma had been 19 years old—the youngest of the gang—and had recently moved into her first solo place, a cramped efficiency apartment furnished almost exclusively with books. But Velma wasn't 19 anymore. She had a couple of patents she was making decent money off—small but useful inventions, mainly for labs and universities—and she had a fairly large financial grant to fund further research. It wasn't long before she was financially secure enough to mortgage a little farmhouse on the outskirts of Coolsville. It stood by itself along the highway, surrounded by fields, woods, and the occasional dairy farm. Velma liked it that way—it was peaceful and quiet. It was like a secret little pocket of the world that belonged solely to her.

Velma sometimes still had nightmares about what had happened in Oakhaven two years ago. These dreams were filled with confused, terrifying images wreathed in flames, punctuated by Sarah Ravencroft's cold, echoing laughter. Velma would wake from them in a cold sweat, often to the sound of her own sobs. The dreams were less frequent, now, but they were still there.

But tonight, Velma wasn't dreaming of the horror that had been Oakhaven. In fact, she slept a deep, untroubled sleep, dreaming of nothing at all in particular.

She didn't know, at first, what had woken her. She rubbed her eyes blearily, and reached automatically for her glasses so she could decipher the glowing green blur that was the digital readout on her alarm clock. _2:46 a.m._… She wondered foggily why she was awake this early.

Slowly, it registered that she was hearing a sound. Knocking. Loud, urgent knocking. She threw a robe over her nightgown, and padded downstairs in her slippers to the source of the noise.

Someone was knocking on her front door. In her half-dreaming state, still mostly wrapped in the warm comfort of sleep, she didn't find this strange or ominous. Someone was knocking at her door, that was all. So she opened it.

There was a dead man standing on her doorstep.

Velma stood petrified in silent shock for a few endless moments. The problem wasn't that there was a dead man standing there. Velma saw dead people all the time: ghosts, ghouls, and zombies were her stock-in-trade. The problem was that this apparition wasn't glowing with an unearthly light suspiciously like phosphorescent paint; he wasn't eerily transparent like a projected hologram; his face wasn't the decaying, mottled green of a rubber Halloween mask. He was standing there, perfectly solid, his skin a healthy, living hue, his breath smoking slightly in the cold air, the rain dripping off his raven-black ponytail, exactly as if he were real and there and alive, and hadn't been dragged into a spellbook and perished in flames over two years ago.

The eyes behind the rain-spotted glasses, the same dark eyes that still sometimes haunted her dreams, lit up as she opened the door. _"Velma—!"_

She jerked the door shut with a sudden _bang! _and pressed her whole weight against it, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. All rational thought ceased entirely for a moment. She shut her eyes as tight as she could and thought fervently:_ it's a dream it's a dream it's just a dream… _For a few long, breathless moments, she listened intently. Only silence and the sounds of rain outside.

She breathed a sigh of relief—and then the knocking resumed, more insistent now; and with it, she heard Ben's voice—_only it's not Ben's voice, Ben is dead_—shouting _"Velma!"_

_ "GO AWAY!" _she screamed, so loudly her throat hurt. _It can't exist no logic applies so it has to GO AWAY… _She sank to the floor, pleading weakly with the thing that shouldn't, _couldn't_ exist. "_Please_… just go away…"

There was a long pause. She could hear soft, shuffling movement outside the door. Then, the voice—and it _was,_ unmistakably, Ben's voice—spoke quietly. "Velma. Please. Ten minutes." His deep voice, tinged with a British accent, held a sort of desperation in it. _"Please."_

Suddenly, she remembered that voice, echoing in her ears, trying to warn her as the branch fell. The relief in his eyes as the embers settled. Those tiny scratches on his palms. She remained perfectly still, crouched on the linoleum, her ears filled with the sound of her own shuddering breaths, for perhaps 30 seconds… one minute… two minutes…

She heard the impossible man on the other side of the door sigh deeply, almost as if in pain, and then heard his shoes stepping off the doorstep and onto the gravel path. Suddenly, before she could change her mind, she said loudly, "Ten minutes?"

The steps halted. A pause. "…Yes."

An even longer pause on her end. "…Let me think." A thick, waiting silence ensued.

_Ok, Velma, think; if there's one thing you can do, it's_ think! _I'm not going out there—that should be self-evident. And, of course, I can't let him_ in_. But… _She thought of the cold rain dripping into his eyes; the way he'd been shivering lightly, his jacket wrapped tightly around him in the chill air. The same jacket that was flecked with tiny black marks where the blazing embers had landed. "Walk around to the back of the house," she decided aloud. "There's a covered porch. It's unlocked." She heard his shoes crunching on the gravel once more, and white-hot terror suddenly erupted behind her eyes. _"Stay away from the inside door," _she hissed vehemently. The footsteps stopped, then started again, walking around the house.

_Oh God, what did I do?_ Velma thought as she raced to the door that opened onto the porch. It was locked, of course, just as she always locked it at night, but she pulled on the doorknob to be sure, then reached up to the chain latch and locked that, too. Then she ran back to the kitchen, pulling open drawers. She briefly contemplated at a long, sharp carving knife, then changed her mind—too easy to use against her. From another drawer, she grabbed a small can of mace and concealed it in the sleeve of her robe, for easy access. _I wonder if mace works on ghosts, _she thought, with a small, hysterical giggle. She also took the wireless phone from its base and put that in the robe's pocket, her thumb hovering over the speed dial button for Emergency Call.

None of this would matter, not really—she remembered the ease with which Ben had hurled fireballs from his bare hands at the Mystery Machine, the way he had leapt from rooftop to rooftop with inhuman strength and speed. It would take more than bit of pepper spray and a 911 call to stop him, if he wanted to hurt her. _Even if he _is_ somehow human, not a…_ She stopped herself there. She couldn't think the word _"ghost"_ again; she couldn't think _any_ of this, because if she stopped to think she wouldn't do it, she wouldn't open the door, because logically she _shouldn't_ open the door, she should go back upstairs and barricade herself inside her room and call the gang…

But those tiny scratches and burn marks that had plagued her memories for two years urged her on, against all reasoning. She walked back through the house before she could change her mind and flipped the switch for the porch light. It turned on, a glaring yellow globe, and she saw Ben on the porch through the glass pane in the door, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness. Somehow, that tiny moment—Ben's arm shading his eyes from the harsh yellow light—made it real, truly _real_ for the first time.

"I'm coming out now," she said loudly, dimly amazed at how level her voice sounded, how _calm_ and _in control._ "Stay away from the door." Ben shuffled backward until his back almost touched the screen walls of the porch, then stopped, watching the door intently. Velma slowly unlocked the handle and cautiously opened the door as wide as the chain would allow. He made no move. She unlocked the chain and stepped out.

They regarded each other silently.

Velma took in Ben's outfit—exactly the same as it had been two years ago, down to the scuff marks on the knees that had marked his last act of rescuing her from the flaming branch. Her stomach twisted oddly. Water dripped slowly down his ponytail to the porch floor. He took off his glasses and tried, vainly, to dry them on his soaked shirt, only managing to smear them, and replaced them with a small huff. Behind the glasses, his eyes were still that same impossibly deep brown, almost black, like midnight pools of unfathomable depth—and despite everything, they still stole her breath away.

Ben saw a young woman in a long flannel nightgown, thick-rimmed glasses, floppy slippers, and a bathrobe. Her chestnut hair was a little longer than it had been when he last saw her, and it was still untidy from sleep. Somehow, the longer hair made her look much more adult than he remembered. Her face was pale and scared, making her freckles stand out even more, and her hazel eyes were filled with questions.

Neither one spoke for a long time. Then Velma said quietly, "…How?"

Ben swallowed, and gestured vaguely with one hand, as if trying to catch the answer in the air, before appearing to give up. "I… was hoping you could tell me."

_"What?"_ Her voice was still level, but she was surprised to hear cold fury underneath its calm.

Ben sat down in an old chair, crossing his legs in a show of casualness. He seemed to be studying his hands intently. "Three days ago, I was in Oakhaven. In the Puritan Village. Summoning Sarah Ravencroft." Velma opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a gesture. "The last thing I remember from that night was her hand on my ankle, taking me into the Book with her."

He paused and looked at her, holding her with his gaze as easily as one might drive a pin through an _Actias luna_ specimen. Velma wanted to speak, but she had no idea what to say.

Ben resumed speaking. "I woke up the next day on the damp grass. I could barely see. I felt around for my glasses, but they weren't there. It was very early morning; the sun was still rising. As I felt my way through the streets, everything seemed to be in the wrong place. Hardly anyone else was out so early. I think I heard someone walking a dog, and a few cars, but no one passed close enough to notice me.

"I don't know how, but I managed to make it home. There was a padlock on the gate, but it was broken. When I opened the door, it smelled like a tomb—stale air and dust. I felt around until I found the drawer where I kept my spare pair of glasses. Thankfully, they were still there."

Velma found herself nodding in sympathy, relating to the tiny trials and tribulations of being half-blind. She stopped herself, angrily.

"Everything in my home was covered in dust. The fridge and cupboards were bare, the power was off, and the phone was useless. A few of the windows were shattered, like someone had thrown rocks at them, and there were mouse droppings on the floor." His lip curled in distaste.

"I went outside again, and saw for certain what I had already suspected—it wasn't autumn anymore. The ground was a muddy slush, and I could smell spring in the air, like it is on the heels of winter, when winter is still fighting back."

Velma thought she knew where this was going by now, but she was still listening in intent anticipation. Ben always _could_ tell a good story—it was why, after everything, his entire collection was still on a shelf in her reading room.

"I saw a newspaper vending box on a corner. I suppose you know what the date on the papers was." Velma nodded slowly. Ben continued, his voice rising up the vocal registers in frustration. "Long story short, Jack's restaurant is now a blasted Red Robin, my house seems to be some sort of local legend that boys throw stones at for a dare, it's _two and a half years_ later, and no one will tell me _what the hell happened! _I've gone from the town's golden boy to the local pariah, and I don't think any of them even know _why. _Even Mayor—excuse me, _former_ Mayor—Corey and Mr. McKnight don't seem to remember what _really_ happened that night!" Ben caught himself nearly shouting in his confused anger, and stopped dead. Velma, whose thumb was almost on the Emergency Call button in her pocket, relaxed slightly.

"I just… I need to know," Ben almost whispered, sounding suddenly forlorn. "Velma… what happened to me?"

Velma moistened her lips, afraid to speak it aloud. "The tree. It was burning." The words came out haltingly, painfully. "After… and then Sarah—and you went into the book…" There was a lump in her throat. She swallowed. "Another branch fell on the book. It caught fire." A long, pregnant pause. "There was nothing left."

Ben's eyes widened, and something like terror flashed briefly across his face—there and gone in an instant—but when he spoke, his voice was eerily calm, even serene. "…I see." He spoke with what seemed to be no more than mild surprise. "I died." His brow creased a little as he contemplated this. "But I suppose I really knew that already, didn't I?" he asked lightly, of no one in particular. "How interesting." He rolled the words around in his mouth musingly, tasting them, trying them on for size. "I_ died…_"

Velma snapped back to herself. _"No,"_ she said flatly.

Ben looked at her in surprise, jerked out of his reverie. "No," she said again, "you didn't. _People don't come back from the dead._" She spoke louder now, with conviction. "There are reports of resurrection throughout recorded history. They all have one thing in common: they don't have a shred of proof. I'll accept witches, warlocks, and even ghosts once I see the evidence. But for you to tell me that you _died,_ mysteriously stayed dead for two years, and somehow miraculously rose again, all to stand there dripping water on my porch…" She shook her head, venom stinging in her voice. "No. It's a good story, Ben, but that's all it is. I don't know how you survived, or why you're lying, and I don't care." She turned sharply on her slippered heel, her bathrobe whipping like a cape. "It's been over ten minutes. _Get off my porch."_

Ben's expression shattered like brittle glass, exposing sheer despair etched plainly onto his face, but Velma was already walking back to the door, and she didn't see it. He recovered himself quickly. "Fine. Lovely. I'll be leaving first thing in the morning, then." The note of bitterness in his voice was plain, as was the challenge in his words.

Velma froze in place, still with her back to him. She took a deep, shuddering breath to compose herself. "…In the morning?"

"_Yes, _Velma. If you haven't _noticed,_ it's—" he checked his watch "—almost 4:00 a.m., pouring rain, in the middle of bugger-all nowhere!"

Now she turned. "How did you get here? How did you even find me?"

Ben waved his hand dismissively. "Some drunk at the local pub gave me directions, and I hitched as close as I could. I walked the last few miles."

"Good. Great." Two spots of red were burning brightly on Velma's cheeks. Her eyes were furious. "I really don't see how any of that is my problem." She started to turn away again. Ben caught her forearm, and she recoiled from his touch in disgust. _"Let go of me!" _The mace and the phone concealed in her robe were entirely forgotten—her anger overwhelmed her fear, and erased any thought of them.

Ben ignored this. "Listen, _that_ isn't your problem, but _I_ am."

"What does _that_ mean?"

"You're going to tell your little friends all about this, yes?" His lip twisted in an unpleasant smile. There was a decidedly nasty note in his voice now. "What do you suppose they're going to think of you, if I leave and there's no evidence I was ever here?"

Velma blanched. She remembered how cautiously the gang had acted around her for weeks after the Oakhaven incident—as if she were made of glass, or a bomb about to go off. They would think she'd cracked. She couldn't blame them. _She_ barely believed she wasn't crazy. She paused indecisively.

"Then again, if I left, I suppose I _could_ find some of the other members of your little club…" he mused, smirking. "Maybe they'd be more _hospitable."_ The implied threat was only too clear.

Ben released her arm and stared smugly at her. He was manipulating her, and he didn't even care to hide it. Velma glared back with frustrated fury. "…_Fine," _she said at last.

"Excellent!" Ben gave a falsely bright grin. "Where am I sleeping?"

"I'm not letting you in my _house_," Velma spat.

"So where?"

"You can stay right here. There's an old couch, sleep on that." And with that, she all but ran back inside, slamming the door. He heard the _click_ of a deadbolt, then the soft sliding rattle of a chain being latched.

Left alone, Ben turned around with a sigh. He ran both hands through the front of his hair, thinking. That had been nasty, really nasty. He hadn't planned on saying any of that. He'd just been _so angry… _and so afraid she'd turn him out, he'd have said_ anything _to stop it. He knew that if they'd parted ways that night, it would have been for good. He wouldn't have had the courage to return, and even if he had, she'd never let him anywhere near her. The thought of never seeing Velma again… it terrified him in ways he didn't understand.

She wasn't _supposed_ to matter. She was just a dumb kid. He shouldn't care what she thought of him. But for some stupid, _infuriating_ reason, he _did_ care.

Ben sighed again, and lay down on the lumpy, worn couch. It was slightly damp, and it smelled musty. He elbowed the pillows, trying to get comfortable. He shuddered—he was still soaked through, and now that the heat of anger had left him, he was _freezing._ But at last, exhaustion overcame discomfort, and he fell into an uneasy sleep.

Velma watched him through the window. He looked so _cold. _Her rage faded quickly, leaving behind a confused tangle of emotions. She watched as Ben slept fitfully, shivering…

_**...**_

A pile of something soft was unceremoniously dumped onto Ben's head, waking him. He blinked sleepily, and put on his glasses just in time to see the door slam again. The lock clicked decisively.

He examined the pile of fabric. It turned out to be several towels and an ancient-looking quilt. He smiled to himself as he began to dry off. _"Thanks, Velma…"_


End file.
